"Miss…? Miss, please wake up."
The voice was soft. Careful. Too careful.
Niana frowned, eyes still closed. "Five more minutes," she mumbled. "I swear I'll go to class this time."
Silence.
Then—"Mistress?"
That word snapped her awake.
She inhaled sharply and opened her eyes.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar. Not cracked concrete, not the faint water stain she'd memorized from years of staring at it during insomnia. This one was high—too high—painted ivory, trimmed with gold filigree that caught the morning light like it had no business being that elegant.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"…Huh?"
"Oh—thank the gods," a voice said quickly. "Mistress, you're awake."
Niana turned her head—and immediately regretted it.
Pain bloomed behind her eyes, sharp and dizzying. She groaned and brought a hand up to her forehead. "Ow—okay, nope, not okay. Definitely not okay."
"Please don't move," the girl beside the bed said urgently. "You struck your head yesterday. The physician advised rest."
Niana peeked at her through half-lidded eyes.
The girl was young, maybe a few years older than her. Brown hair neatly tied back, wearing a black-and-white uniform that looked like it had stepped straight out of a historical drama. Apron crisp. Posture perfect. Expression worried but controlled.
"…Why are you dressed like that?" Niana asked hoarsely.
The maid blinked. "…Like what, mistress?"
"Like," Niana gestured weakly, "like you're about to ask me if I want tea or my enemies executed."
The maid froze.
"I—I beg your pardon?"
Niana stared at her.
This had to be a dream.
"Okay," Niana muttered, closing her eyes again. "Lucid dream. Got it. My brain finally snapped. Cool. Very cool."
"Please, mistress," the maid said softly, panic creeping into her voice. "If you feel unwell, I will summon the butler at once."
"Butler," Niana echoed flatly. "Of course. Why not."
She opened her eyes again.
Still the same ceiling. Same sunlight. Same girl, wringing her hands nervously.
"…You're really here," Niana said slowly.
"Yes, mistress."
"…You're not disappearing."
"No, mistress."
"…And I hit my head?"
"Yes, mistress."
Niana exhaled and sank back into the pillows. They were absurdly soft. Expensive-soft. I would never afford this, her brain supplied helpfully.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. New plan. I'm just… gonna go with this."
The maid visibly relaxed. "Shall I assist you in dressing, mistress?"
Niana sat up too fast. "You will not."
The maid stiffened. "I—of course. Forgive me."
"No, I—sorry," Niana said quickly, rubbing her temples. "I just… need a second. Everything feels… heavy."
"That is understandable," the maid said gently. "You lost consciousness for several hours."
"…Several," Niana repeated.
"Yes, mistress."
"Right. Sure. Naturally."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and immediately felt it—the weight. Not just physical, but wrong. Like the body she was in didn't move the way she expected it to.
"…Why do my arms feel like they've never done chores in their life?" she muttered.
"I beg your pardon, mistress?"
"Nothing."
The maid helped her stand—carefully, respectfully, like Niana might shatter if mishandled.
They dressed her in silence. Too much silence.
Niana kept glancing at the mirror.
The girl staring back at her had her face—but refined. Softer skin. Healthier. Dark hair falling neatly over her shoulders like it had never known split ends or stress-induced hair loss.
"…That's me," Niana whispered.
"Yes, mistress."
"No," she said quietly. "That's… me."
The maid smiled, relieved. "I am glad your memory has not completely failed."
Memory.
That word echoed unpleasantly.
They went to the dining room.
The table was long. Too long.
Only one seat was set.
Niana stopped walking.
"…Where's everyone else?"
The maid hesitated. Just a fraction too long.
"There is no one else, mistress."
Her stomach dropped.
"…My mother?" Niana asked carefully. "My brother?"
Silence.
The maid lowered her head. "The household is… only you now, mistress."
Something inside her cracked.
"No," Niana said, voice thin. "That's not funny. Where are they?"
The maid didn't answer.
The room felt too large. The air too still.
Her chest tightened. "Where am I?"
The maid opened her mouth—then stopped.
Footsteps echoed from the doorway.
Measured. Unhurried.
A presence entered the room before the man himself did.
He was tall. Dressed impeccably in black, gloves pristine, posture straight as a blade. His silver-gray eyes assessed the scene in a single glance—her pale face, the untouched table, the maid's distress.
He bowed deeply.
"Good morning," he said calmly. "I am relieved to see you conscious."
Niana looked at him.
"…Who are you?"
His gaze sharpened—just slightly.
"I am Lucien," he replied evenly. "The head butler of this household."
He straightened, eyes never leaving her.
"And you, mistress… have suffered an injury."
She swallowed.
"…Yeah," Niana said. "You could say that."
Lucien folded his hands behind his back.
"Please do not trouble yourself," he said politely. "We will proceed… carefully."
Something in his tone made her spine prickle.
Not concern.
Assessment.
And for the first time since waking—
Niana understood one thing with terrifying clarity.
Whatever this place was—
She was not safe.
Niana stood there, frozen at the threshold of the dining room, staring at the table like it had personally offended her.
It was long. Polished. Set for many.
Only one place was prepared.
A single plate. A single glass. A single chair.
"…No," she said softly.
Lucien remained by her side, unmoving. Close enough that she could sense him, far enough that it felt deliberate.
The maid hesitated behind them. "Mistress… please, take your seat."
Niana laughed.
It slipped out before she could stop it—short, breathless, wrong. "Wow," she said, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Okay. This dream is committing to the bit."
Lucien's eyes flicked to her face.
"Dream?" he asked politely.
She turned to him. Really looked at him this time.
Blond hair—pale gold, neatly tied back, not a single strand out of place. His features were sharp but not severe, refined in a way that felt unfair. The kind of face that belonged on a noble, not standing silently behind chairs. His eyes were a cool gray, observant, unsettlingly calm.
He was young.
Too young.
Are butlers supposed to look like that?
Are they supposed to be this close to my age?
"…How old are you?" Niana blurted out.
The maid gasped.
Lucien didn't even blink.
"Twenty," he answered smoothly.
Niana stared.
"Yeah, no," she said. "Absolutely not."
Lucien inclined his head slightly. "I beg your pardon, mistress?"
"You're telling me," she said, gesturing at him, "that you're my butler, and you're twenty, and you look like—like—"
She waved vaguely, clearly struggling to find a socially acceptable word.
"—that?"
Lucien waited.
Patient. Impossibly patient.
"I am… adequate for my position," he said finally.
"That's not what I meant," she muttered. "That's not what I meant at all."
Her gaze drifted back to the table.
One chair.
Her chest tightened.
"…Where are the others," she asked again, quieter now. "Where's my mother."
Lucien didn't answer immediately.
That was the problem.
"…Lucien," Niana said, her voice cracking just a little. "Where is my family?"
The silence stretched.
The maid's hands trembled at her sides.
Lucien spoke at last, tone unchanged, formal to the point of cruelty.
"There are no other members of the household, mistress."
Her ears rang.
"That's… that's not funny," she whispered. "You're not funny."
Lucien lowered his gaze—not in shame. In acknowledgment.
"I would not joke about such matters."
Her breath came faster. "Then where are they?"
Another pause.
"They are deceased."
The word hit her like a physical blow.
"No," she said immediately. "No. You're wrong."
Lucien did not correct her.
"No," she repeated, louder now. "That's not—my mom would never just—my brother—he wouldn't—"
Her vision blurred. The room felt too bright, too sharp.
"This isn't my house," she said. "This isn't my life. You're all—this is—"
She knocked into the table.
The glass tipped.
Shattered.
The sound echoed violently through the room.
The maid cried out. "Mistress!"
Niana didn't hear her.
She backed away, shaking, hands clutching at her sleeves. "Where am I," she whispered. "Where am I?"
Lucien moved.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively.
Just one step closer.
"Please," he said calmly, "steady yourself."
"Don't," she snapped, eyes flashing up at him. "Don't tell me to calm down when you just told me my family is dead."
His expression didn't change—but something sharpened behind his eyes.
"You suffered a head injury," he said evenly. "Memory loss is not uncommon."
"…Memory loss," she echoed weakly.
"Yes, mistress."
She laughed again, this time hysterical. "Oh. Oh, that's perfect. That explains everything, doesn't it?"
Lucien studied her carefully. "Do you… recall nothing?"
She looked at him.
At his perfect posture. His controlled breathing. The way his eyes never stopped analyzing her, even now.
"I remember things," she said slowly. "Just… not this."
He inclined his head. "Then we will proceed under the assumption that your memories require time to return."
"And if they don't?" she asked.
Lucien met her gaze.
"Then I will ensure," he said, voice calm as still water, "that you are protected regardless."
Something about the way he said it made her stomach twist.
Protected.
She sank into the chair, suddenly exhausted. "I don't like this," she muttered. "I don't like any of this."
Lucien stepped behind her chair.
Just standing there.
Guarding.
Watching.
"I understand," he said quietly.
She didn't believe him.
But as her hands trembled over the untouched plate, as the silence pressed in once more, Niana realized something she hadn't wanted to admit yet.
This wasn't a dream.
And that young, impossibly handsome butler—
Was not here just to serve.